


Undertow

by unoriginal_liz



Category: Echoes (Maeve Binchy)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-31
Updated: 2009-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unoriginal_liz/pseuds/unoriginal_liz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, it was hard to be awkward around Gerry Doyle - he had a way of putting you at your ease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a drabble challenge on live journal, prompt given by amoenavi. Very probably the one and only 'Echoes' fanfic in existence in the entirety of the interwebs :)

Of the many things that were said (or whispered) about Gerry Doyle - and many things _were_ said and whispered, in a small town like Castlebay - the one point that everyone agreed on was that he was a good brother.

So when Fiona told him about the baby, he didn't raise his voice. He didn't treat her coldly. He made no bitter speeches about this not being what he had spent all these years protecting her virtue for...to bear a married man's bastard child and single-handedly ruin her reputation.

No-one would have blamed him, begrudged him a few minutes of righteous fury. But no. What was done was done - and there was no good in wasting fine angry words on something that couldn't be changed. So Gerry took care of it, of _her_ , the way he always had, without fuss and without recriminations...and Fiona accepted gratefully.

And afterwards, when the baby had been taken, adopted, and Fiona was in a bad state, he caught the ferry to England again.

She just sat there, fingers curling and uncurling in the bedding, and cried.

"Come on," he coaxed. "You know it was all done for the best."

She nodded, but when she blinked, more tears slid down her cheeks.

"It was the only thing you could do," he said. "It was the right thing to do."

She nodded again, eyes downcast. "I know," she whispered, "but he was so small..."

"And isn't he better off now?" he asked, with complete conviction. "Isn't it better for him to have a mam and a dad? He'll want for nothing, they'll see to that. He'll be petted and looked after by people who" - he didn't say 'want him,' because Gerry Doyle was not tactless or cruel, even if the truth was both those things, " - by people who can afford to give him every opportunity."

She looked at him, face pale under her dark ringlets. 

"What kind of a life could he have had in Castlebay?" Gerry asked. "You know what it would have been like." But Fiona didn't, thank God, and now she would never have to.

Her fingers played with the sheets. "It was the right thing to do," she repeated. She sounded a little more sure of herself. 

What was done was done, and Gerry didn't see much use in dwelling on things that couldn't be changed - that _c=shouldn't_ be changed. But for Fiona, he did.

He left her in slightly better spirits. He was tired and drained himself - from Fiona's problems, from the very fact of being in England. It made him restless and dissatisfied - not that you would have known it to look at him.

The last time he had been to England - a few weeks ago - he had paid a call to Ned O' Brien, who was now working in a pub, and living in a little room above it. Ned was glad to see a familiar face, and when, after an appropriate amount of time had been spent on small talk, Gerry broached the subject of Tommy, they had spoken of him without awkwardness. Of course, it was hard to be awkward around Gerry Doyle - he had a way of putting you at your ease.

"He always was a bit of an eejit. Still, he doesn't have it too bad - besides myself, there's Father Flynn goes to see him, and Clare writes. So he's not too badly off, all things considered."

"And what'll happen when he gets out?" Gerry asked casually.

Ned shrugged. "Sure he's a while to go yet."

Gerry agreed with a smile, but said thoughtfully that there was no harm in making plans. Did Ned think Tommy would go home to Castlebay? Or would he stay in England, maybe?

Gerry had a feeling that Tommy, like Fiona, needed looking after. Like Fiona, he doubted Tommy - poor, thick Tommy - was equipped for a life outside of the reassuring familiarity of Castlebay.

Ned shrugged again. "I suppose I'll have to have a word with Clare, when it's nearer the time," he said. Then, offhandedly, "She was very good when I told her. She's a grand girl - she'll know what to do."

Gerry looked at him, Ned O' Brien, Clare's brother, in the tiny little room he rented above the pub where he worked, and the resentment rose up in his throat and nearly choked him. The _waste_ of it, the sheer, stupid _waste_. Ned was no Tommy, but that wasn't saying much. If England was a land littered with opportunity, Ned obviously hadn't thought the effort of stooping to pick it up was worth the hassle. Ned would never make anything of himself - too ready and eager to push the burden of a hard decision, any real responsibility, onto the shoulders of his baby sister.

If Gerry or Clare had come to England, had been given this chance - it would have been a different story.

Affably, Gerry had concurred that Clare was indeed a fine girl, and quickly turned the talk to other things.

He thought about Clare now, on the ferry back to Dublin. Brilliant, determined CLare who took her family's burdens, and put up with their bewildered lack of understanding and their begrudgers - but still kept heading towards the future, head held high. She didn't let their demands, their fearful, clawing fingers drag her back - an undertow far more dangerous than the one visitors were warned about before they set foot on Castlebay beach.

Gerry had spent a great deal of his life wanting Clare. And he wanted her _now_ , as the ferry made its slow way back across the Irish Sea, to Dublin, where he would disembark and get the train and go home to his mother - his mother, for whom even the stifling safety of Castlebay was too frightening - and dream dreams that were too big for the likes of Gerry Doyle.

He wanted Clare. But his wanting wasn't aimless, like those fellows that hung around waiting hopelessly for the girl they fancied to notive them. No. Gerry Doyle was waiting for the right time. It would come eventually, he knew. He could have her now, if he tried. But he wouldn't try. Not yet. 

The way he saw it, Clare had had years of gritting her teeth and pursuing her dreams in the face of almost everyone else's inattention, their dismissal, their insistence that their petty problems were more important. He had made a tentative pass before, testing the waters - nothing heavy, nothing that couldn't easily be shrugged off. He had asked her to his caravan, the night of the dance. It had been one of the rare occasions she allowed herself to have fun, to let down her hair a little. She had been beautiful, in her red skirt and white blouse, and he had been overcome by that, made impatient.

SHe had considered it - he was sure she had considered it. But she had said no. And he had understood. Dreams like Clare's took a lot of hard work. There was no time for anything else at the moment. She wasn't ready for him yet. He would only be a distraction. It was hard truth - but life was hard sometimes, and Gerry Doyle knew that better than most. It didn't matter - they would have a lifetime to make up for the missed chances, the refusals she was forced to give. He could never be satisfied with only half of her attention anyway. So until she was ready, he would be charming, easygoing Gerry Doyle, and he would never breathe a word of his need.

He would be the one person who made it easy for her to pursue her goals, the one person who would never make demands on her.

But this evening, as he disembarked in Dublin, weary in a way that he usually wasn't - thoughts of Fiona, of the baby, of Tommy and Ned and wasted opportunities swirling in his head - he decided that he needed to see her. He shrugged off any niggling feelings that told him it was dangerous, that he was too tired to watch himself. It wasn't the right time - he knew that. When he imagined their future - his and Clare's - they were unencumbered, free. Fiona still needed to be provided for, and his mother. As did Tommy. It wasn't the right time, and he trusted that knowledge to keep him straight.

He would not touch her - he would not let his guard slip and say any of the words he carefully kept for the day Clare O' Brien would be fully his. No - he would be carefree, amusing Gerry Doyle. But he needed to see her. He would see her, and force himself to talk about small, trivial matters, and it would be enough.

He would make it be enough


End file.
